


Furlough

by Concetta20



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, I can't believe no one else has thought of this ship, It would be awesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:29:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9119692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Concetta20/pseuds/Concetta20
Summary: The severe, stoic, perfectionist that is Captain Phasma meets her opposite not only in allegience, but character.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this on fan fiction.net, it's still in progress. This is a multiple short shot plot bunny that popped into my head the other day while I was letting my mind wander ... I should put a leash on that thing. Anyway, I made some revisions now that I have the film and re-watched it and noticed some I could make it mesh better and ways I could improve it.

Poe winced as the protective gear of the Stormtroppers he was sandwiched between dug into his legs and arm, and each time the shuttle hit turbulence he was painfully squeezed between their shoulders. "I know I'm a prisoner, but is a little personal space too much to ask?"

The trooper to his right slowly turned his helmeted head towards him, then after a moment, looked away. Poe turned to his "new friend" on the left. The trooper had his head down but seemed to realize that Poe was looking at him. He raised his head and Poe saw against the black and snowy white face guard, a bloody handprint smeared down to the trooper's chin. The helmet dipped again and he scooted over, just ever so slightly. Poe almost felt sorry for him. Was the blood that of a fellow trooper?

Or a villager?

Poe's stomach clenched in anguish, chasing any sympathy away. Tuanul was now a ghost town thanks to the First Order ... and thanks to him for drawing them there. He prayed the villagers' deaths would not be in vain.

_Be safe, BB-8._

Poe was dragged and pushed down the craft's ramp and onto the grooved floor of the loading bay. "All right, all right," Poe snapped. He felt the business end of a blaster pushed into his back and he stumbled forward. "If you wanted me to walk faster, all you had to do is say so."

Poe looked about the hangar at the docked Tie-fighters and sighed; what he wouldn't give to try his hand at flying one of those things. As he continued to look about he did not notice Tall, Dark and Crazy anywhere; either he had not arrived yet, or was waiting for him somewhere on the destroyer. Poe felt an uncharacteristic tremor of fear in the pit of his stomach as he remembered the sight of his blaster beam suspended in mid-air.

"Keep moving," barked a trooper from behind. Poe had inadvertently slowed down during his sight-seeing. He returned his attention to the front. They were approaching a large blast door, the entrance into the inner part of the star destroyer.

The blast door opened to reveal a small group of Stormtroppers waiting on the other side. A flash of something shiny was peeking through the gaps of the soldiers standing directly in front of him. Poe tilted his head and tried to lean over a bit to see around their giant helmets and shoulder pads.

Poe received a sharp cuff on the side of his head. He stumbled, his ears ringing; he felt something warm trickle down the side of his head.

"Don't move, rebel scum!"

"Move, don't move, make up your mind ..." Poe rasped through clenched teeth. His back was prodded again. Poe was an extremely patient man but they were really starting to get on his last nerve.

The sea of Troopers suddenly parted to fully reveal two soldiers at the door waiting to take charge of him.

After being pulled down a maze of identical looking corridors they finally stopped before one of a long row doors. The stormtrooper on his left touched a keycard to the sensor and the door unsealed.

The first thing Poe saw was the interrogation unit, sitting in the middle of the room, all sorts of evil looking gadgets attached along the chair, although it was more like a board tilted on an angle.

"Aw, you didn't have to prepare a guest room for me, I don't plan to stay that long ..."

"Shut up!" The trooper closest to him snapped. He pushed him into the room and strapped him into the chair.

"What were you doing on Jakku?" The other of the two asked.

"I thought you wanted me to shut up."

"Answer me, rebel scum!"

"'Rebel scum' again? Come on, guys, you've gotta step up your creativity on the insults ..."

The stormtrooper growled and snapped his head to look at the other trooper, obviously giving him a sort of signal because the other nodded and opened a panel in the wall.

Poe heard a humming from the sinister looking apparatus that flanked both sides of his head. The humming crescendoed and Poe knew that whatever it was, it was being powered up. Poe drew in a deep bracing breath as surreptitiously as possible. The interrogating stormtrooper raised his arm to the trooper by the panel and was about to bring it down in signal when the door unsealed. The troopers both stopped stood at attention.

"Captain Phasma."

When Poe saw the new arrival he lifted his head from the chair in surprise. The figure was a stormtrooper but instead of the usual white armor, this soldier was clad in highly polished chromium. In addition to that a black, red-lined cape fluttered behind him.

"Wow ... That's one way to stand out ..."

"Have you still not extracted information?" A dark and dulcet female voice, highly displeased in tone, came from the chromium trooper. Poe sat up even further, his eyebrows rising.

"I didn't know the bucket-heads came in female . . . Explains the outfit."

The chromium trooper slowly turned her helmet from the other soldier to Poe.

"Though it's understandable that, as a woman, you'd want a bit of flair," Poe continued, probably an unwise move on his part, but the flamboyant armor provoked him. "Although I think the cape would've been enough, the chromium is a bit overkill ... maybe just a couple of rainbow gems on the side of the helmet ..."

Captain Phasma slowly made her way over to the interrogation chair until she stood before it, looking down at him.

Poe watched with confusion as the strange trooper then proceeded to detach the armored gauntlet from her right hand. In the next moment Phasma's bare fist punched him across the face, her Imperial Academy ring splitting his lip.

"I will not be mocked."

Poe grunted in pain, but that was all the reaction he would give them the pleasure of seeing. He spit out the blood from his lip then turned his head back to regard Phasma as she wiped her knuckles on the red side of her cape and methodically reattached her gauntlet.

"You're quite a girl ..." He said scornfully.

Phasma turned her head and stared at him a long moment.

"And you're being unnecessarily difficult ... 'Poe Westover Dameron, commander of the Rapier Squadron . . .'" She was reading the signal from his dog tags. "'Native of Yavin-IV.'"

"Age thirty-six, five feet, eight inches tall, favorite color blue ..." Poe finished for her, acting bored, laying his head back on the chair's headrest, ignoring the malevolent hum.

"If you're a commander, where's your squadron?"

Poe closed his eyes.

Phasma nodded to the stormtrooper by the panel and in the next moment a tendril of electricity shot from end of the apparatus to the other, straight through his temples. His limbs twitched involuntarily, pressing painfully against the metal restraints. It felt like his head was about to explode, but he gritted his teeth growled against the pain.

"Why were you alone on Jakku? A special mission, perhaps?"

Poe closed his eyes and turned his face away. The electric bolt came again.

"The Republic's encroachment of First Order space is a breach of the agreement."

Poe opened his eyes to look at Phasma, his gaze was slightly unfocused, clouded by the in pain.

"I could not picture the Republic, having grown fat and overconfident, to be so bold ... unless ... I had heard rumors of a frustrated splinter group coming out from the Republic. Warmongers, enemies of peace and stability, willing to think the worst of the First Order, with Organa as its secret head."

"You will get nothing from me." Poe gasped out.

Phasma was silent for a moment.

"No ..." She said at last, "I see I would not." Phasma made a sign to the trooper by the panel. The humming faded away to silence. Poe looked up a Phasma with a little surprise.

"I'm not a user of the Force," Phasma continued, "but I know soldiers, and I think nothing less would extract information from you," Phasma said without admiration or censure but matter-of-factly, as she would when analyzing a trooper's battle performance.

A smirk quirked up the un-injured corner of Poe's mouth. "Is that a compliment?"

Captain Phasma did not reply but turned on her heel and marched from the room, the two other Stormtroopers following in her black and red wake.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Phasma's plated boots ate up the metallic grill walkway of the security wing as she headed towards the surveillance room. The vital readings on the interface of her helmet informed her of elevated heart-rate and was now reading her temperature. She was seething but her anger at the prisoner was nothing to the anger she directed at herself. It had been a long time since she had shown her temper to anyone, not since her green days at the Academy. She was doubly ashamed that two of her cadets witnessed it, especially after she had given lengthy lectures about keeping calm and unemotional at all times. Strong emotions clouded judgement. Clouded judgement ended in casualty.

Perhaps the approach of her monthly cycle was the cause of her heightened anger ... Although she usually was able to keep the irritability in check. She would run a diagnostic later.

There was something about the fighter pilot that got deep under her skin. When he had stared at her his deep honey-colored eyes seemed to penetrate her helmet, into her very soul. Phasma loathed such disgusting clichés, but there it was, and it was very unnerving.

She tried to distract herself from her ruminations by focusing on another issue, that of FN-2187's troubling trend of misplaced empathy. Phasma had a suspicion that he even went against orders and did not fire on the villagers as commanded. He should not have had a problem, he had ended the negotiations with striking miners on Pressylla the same way ... Unless he had let the others around him shoot while he did not, Phasma had not stayed in the room after giving the order. Had he done the same on Jakku? Ren had tipped her off concerning FN-2187's conflicting emotions that he sensed on Jakku. Phasma sincerely hoped that he was wrong for once. One of her few dreams was to have an officer come out of her troopers so she could say with pride that she created them, that it was her guidance and discipline that lead them to brilliant careers with unswerving loyalty to the First Order.

She thought FN-2187 had the potential, but now she was not so sure . . .

Phasma unsealed the door to the surveillance room and stepped in.

"Call up the security feed for R block, room aught-seven."

"Yes, Captain."

The reconditioning room she had assigned to FN-2187 was empty. Perhaps he had stopped at the refresher stalls. With the amount FN-2187 had been sweating when she last spoke to him she would not be surprised. Yet, if he was not in that room within the next minute she would hunt him down.

Suddenly Phasma became aware of Kylo Ren's voice appearing unexpectedly on her left. It sounded far away and tinny. She slowly turned her head toward the noise and saw that on a nearby holoscreen was a feed from the interrogation block. Despite the grainy quality of the picture she immediately recognized the New Republic pilot. Without even realizing it Phasma moved toward the screen to stand behind the officer who was watching it raptly. Perhaps she would watch a little as well, she wanted the satisfaction of seeing the smug pilot broken.

Phasma had not been privy to an interrogation by Kylo Ren before, but she had heard stories. She secretly sneered at his odd ways. He was emotions driven, thus doomed to fail. But he was sent by Supreme Leader Snoke and granted certain authorities so she had no say in any matter concerning Kylo Ren- not that anyone ever asked for her opinion concerning the First Order's internal logistics, nor would she had offered any, it was not her place. As long as they stayed out of her way when it came to how she trained her men she could tolerate a great deal of foolishness from those above.

The prisoner had glib answers for Kylo Ren who circled him like a Tatooine scavenger bird, the fluttering ragged edges of his rough spun cape looking like feathers, fitting nicely into the simile.

Suddenly Kylo Ren stopped pacing and reached out toward Poe.

Phasma watched closely as the smirk on the pilot's face faded and pain began to register. She could track by his expression and body language that the intensity of whatever Kylo Ren was doing to him was swiftly increasing. His back arched then his upper torso thrust forward, then his head. He looked as if his innards were about to be pulled up through his throat. Is that what would happen? Could Kylo Ren do that?

"Are you alright, Captain Phasma?"

"What?" She snapped then realized she had been gripping the back of the officer's chair. Instead of feeling the vindictive pleasure and apathy she had felt before and expected to feel again, she felt ... uncomfortable.

Phasma bit back a curse. She had no one to blame but herself, she had broken another one of her rules: Do not speak with the enemy for an unnecessary length of time. Once you had an exchange they had the risk of becoming human to you and thus hindered your ability to unhesitatingly take orders in doling out their inevitable fate. She would have to submit herself to reconditioning.

An almost unearthly scream came tearing out of Poe's mouth. The sound caused the hairs on the back of Phasma's neck to stand on end. Out of the corner of her eye she saw the officer flinch.

"This is what happens to those who resist the progress of the First Order," Phasma said almost to herself and to no one in particular.

"Y-yes, ma'am-captain!" The officer answered.

Kylo Ren leaned his head near the pilot's slumped down one. It appeared that the prisoner was saying something.

"Thank you, you've been most helpful," his voice dripped with smug victory as he swept out the door.

Phasma found her eyes fixed on the image of the pilot's still form.

Is he dead?

The image suddenly changed as the security officer, seeing that the show was over, switched to another camera and resumed his surveillance.

* * *

 

Poe did not know how long he was out. He almost did not want to wake up because all he could think about was the bizarre and horrifying feeling of that freak probing his brain, his voice inside his head. He felt violated, he felt sick, he felt someone standing nearby.

Poe twitched with surprise and fear, his nerves raw and alert. He turned his head to see Captain Phasma standing by the portal.

Phasma's vital monitor informed her of Poe's condition. A small part of her felt a treacherous sense of relief when she saw that he was stable, superficial injuries notwithstanding.

"Oh, it's you," Poe croaked, his body relaxing. The fact that he clearly found her less frightening than Kylo Ren, though not surprising, added to her irritation.

"Come to personally finish me off?"

"Not yet," she said smoothly. There was a long pause. "You're wasted on the Resistance," Phasma added.

Poe's eyebrows lifted slightly tired surprise then he tilted his head and stared hard at Phasma.

"Wow ..." he murmured quietly.

"What?" Phasma asked impatiently, she found his stare inexplicably unnerving.

"I look terrible ..." Poe said with a faint wry grin.

Phasma realized he had not been studying her, but his own reflection on her armor.

"You will be kept alive long enough to witness the destruction of the Republic." Phasma said darkly then turned on her heel and left the room.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

It would be the sixty seconds she would regret for the rest of her life. She had failed the First Order, she had failed her subordinates, she had failed absolutely every person that had ever meant anything to her. Her moment of weakness cost her everything.

_Just let go . . ._

Phasma's feet and shoulders were braced against the walls of the garbage chute, to prevent her from falling into the compactor.

_Just become a part of the trash . . ._

She wanted to, but her sense of self-preservation would not allow her. The fact that it had been she who had lowered the shields would be a secret she would take to her grave. She would bury the shame deep inside, piece her shattered pride back together and move on.

It took some time but by going slowly she was able to activate the magnetic grappling hook from under her left arm guard. The magnetized head shot out and attached itself to the chute door. Hopefully the hinges would hold.

Before Phasma could activate the winch, her surroundings quaked, shaking her loose from her wedged position. The steel-fiber cable unwound as she fell down the nearly vertical chute.

"Retract! Retract!"

The mechanism responded immediately. The stop was so abrupt that as a result the arm attached to the cable was yanked violently. The extreme pain that followed told Phasma that it was dislocated. As the winch reversed, the slow ascent caused her more agony. To keep from crying out she bit her lip until she tasted blood.

Suddenly, Phasma dropped about a foot. This time a scream did escape her lips. Her ascent resumed and she came to the conclusion that the chute door must have opened, leaving the grappling head gripping the flapping lid. The less stable mooring sent her bumping against the chute walls.

Once she reached the entrance it took her some time to clamber out with the use of only one arm.

Phasma allowed herself to remain sprawled on the corridor floor just long enough to collect herself. Her breath came in gasps as the pain from her arm and shoulder pulsed through her.

Another explosion, deeper sounding than before, rocked the base. She had to leave soon.

Phasma slowly made her way down the deserted corridor, cradling her left arm. Smoke was beginning to pour in through various newly created orifices, courtesy of The Resistance, courtesy of Captain Phasma. Phasma suppressed a groan of regret and pushed on.

She soon found her way into the hangar, where the visibility was considerably worse. The Resistance had made a point of attacking the area as a part of crippling defenses.

The Upsilion-class command shuttles were gone. Kylo Ren, General Hux and the other officers had already abandoned the base.

She could make out the outline of TIE-fighters. Most of them were destroyed or too damaged to fly. But then Phasma's eyes landed on one that seemed unharmed and she moved for a closer look. Fortunately it had already been un-tethered from the docking bay and the hatch was open. She then saw why. Two pilots lay by the starfighter, one on the ground and one slumped against the hull; large chunks of shrapnel had pierced their flight suits.

Phasma pulled the corpse off the hull and stripped him of his flight suit and helmet. The oxygen apparatus seemed unharmed. She began the painful, slow process of maneuvering herself out of her own uniform then donning his. The blaster holster was a particular challenge but by lying down on it she was able hold the belt in place and snap it closed.

The First Order TIE-fighter she would be attempting to pilot had life support built in, making the uniform redundant yet necessary in case of emergency—and in her case there would most likely be one; her piloting skills were rudimentary at best, and she had no gunner for her defense.

Nevertheless Phasma gingerly made trips up the boarding ladder, throwing her armor piece by piece into the empty gunner's seat. She was not about to leave it behind. Phasma lastly fashioned a crude sling from her cape by tying the ends together with her good hand and her teeth. After putting on the oxygen mask she climbed the boarding ladder and slipped into the pilot's seat.

* * *

 

Not until she cleared the atmosphere was Phasma able to appreciate the full scope of the irreversible damage she had caused. The planet was literally breaking apart.

Horror and disbelief paralyzed her as she stared at the destruction when she should have been plugging in coordinates for the jump to light-speed.

A fleeing fellow tie-fighter, in its reckless bid for safety, clipped her and sent her fighter spinning. The shock brought Phasma back to herself. With much difficulty, seeing as the flight control column was on the left and she had to use her right hand, she stabilized the TIE-fighter. Then with shaking fingers she began to punch in the coordinates for Rakata Prime. But before she could finish the fighter was struck again, this time by debris from the disintegrating base. The display flashed to inform her that the navigation had been damaged.

Phasma paused. If she jumped now into hyperspace without proper navigation she could run into something and be smashed into smithereens. If she did not jump now she would not clear the planet's destruction in time. Either way she could die, but the greater chance of survival was in the jump.

Phasma closed her eyes and pushed the controls of the thrust quadrant forward, activating the hyperdrive. She watched as the stars stretched out around the cockpit window and felt her body pushed back into the seat as the fighter jumped.

* * *

"How long has it been since you've been home, Commander?" General Organa inquired after Poe delivered his report on the successful run against Starkiller Base.

"Almost a year, ma'am."

The General raised her eyebrows. "A year? Well, I think that after your performance today you deserve a nice long furlough."

"I'm very grateful, ma'am, but I couldn't possibly go on furlough now, not with the First Order finally exposed. The Resistance will need me to-"

Leia cut him off with a look.

"Do you imagine you are the only capable pilot in the Resistance?"

Poe ducked his head slightly, feeling the gentle rebuke.

The General laid a firm hand on his broad shoulder and looked into his eyes.

"I appreciate your dedication, but you must not neglect your family. They're the reason we fight ..." Leia's gaze dropped and she moved away. Her regal bearing drooped and she suddenly looked old.

"Ma'am?"

Leia passed a hand over her eyes. "I'm fine."

"I heard about Captain Solo, my deepest sympathies."

Leia turned back to him and Poe could see her eyes watering. "Even when they are far away, you are sure you will see them again, that they will always be there ..."

Poe gave a small, solemn bow "I understand, General. I'll do as you say."

A small smile graced the former Princess' face. "I'm sure your father will be pleased you did."

* * *

 

Phasma had been speeding through hyperspace for an hour. Fifteen minutes in various diagnoses alerts on the fighter's pilot display had begun to list themselves down the screen. Apparently the long range communications antenna had been damaged and, with the jump to hyperspace, completely snapped off; the laser cannon lost functionality, and when the other fighter had clipped her, it had partially damaged the shield generator, so it could not be brought up to full power. Aside from the shield generator, these damages were not life-threatening to the craft. But now an hour in, stronger alerts were appearing: A breach in the hull was detected over the ion-flux cooling system. The debris from the base break-up had pierced the hull and without the cooling system functioning, the power cells were overheating. It wouldn't be long before the fighter would shut-down.

Phasma pulled back the controls on the thrust quadrant and the galaxy slowed down into focus.

It seemed that she had jumped out of hyperspace just in time, for her viewport was filled with the sight of a large green planet. If she had not stopped, the faulty navigation would have slammed her into the planet. She would have been dead before she knew what had hit her.

Phasma pulled up at the control column but it was not responding. Apparently she was already stuck in the planet's gravitational field. Phasma forcibly contented herself to wait until she was far down enough into the atmosphere that she could take off again.

She soon realized that re-entry into space would be impossible. Alerts were blaring that the power cells were overheating and the damaged deflector shield was weakening against the heat of entry into the atmosphere. Phasma gritted her teeth, determined to make it to the surface. If she could, in one piece, get low enough she could safely eject.

The vast swaths of green were coming closer. Phasma could now see that the planet was mostly jungle- at least the section she seemed to be falling toward was. As she got closer she could see what appeared to be tall sun bleached stone structures sticking the tops of their heads out of the canopy. Probably temples of some kind.

Phasma switched on the activation for the ejection seat and gripped the lever. After waiting a whole three minutes, she pulled the lever.

_My armor!_

But it was too late. The pilot's seat was flung out of the top hatch, leaving the armor sitting on the gunner's sear. Phasma tried her best to follow the falling fighter's trajectory with the limited directional propulsion built in the pilot's seat. But soon that gave out, as it was only designed to take you a safe distance from the destroyed ship. Phasma activated the terra-chute. The chute happened to be settling her down very close to one of the stone temples. She watched in awe, despite herself, as she floated down alongside the impressively tall, ancient, tower-like temple. A thousand steps had been cut into its side, forming a tiered ramp to the top.

But her attention was soon taken with the sound of the TIE-fighter crashing in the distance. She turned her head just in time to see a billow of smoke rising a small ways off before she went under the canopy.

Once the seat had settled rather roughly to earth Phasma went about extricating herself and taking out the ration supplies stored in a compartment underneath the seat. She did not stop to take one more look at the ancient tower or mind the throbbing pain in her arm or the ache of the rest of her body, but marched on in what she believed was the direction of the smoke.

It did not take long for Phasma to feel the effects of the jungle heat. She removed her oxygen mask for an experimental whiff of the planet's air. Finding it breathable, she tossed the cumbersome mask aside. For a few minutes she felt very exposed, with fresh air hitting her face, which had been covered by a helmet for most of her waking adult life. She pushed on.

After walking for a little over an hour she stopped to rest. She missed having her armor to run health diagnostics. She would have to settle for a visual check of what hurt, but first she would eat a little from the rations and rehydrate.

On inspection, nothing seemed broken or cut thanks to the tough material of the flight suit, but judging from the total ache she was sure she would be bruised all over. Phasma set out again and after another hour, took another rest. Except this one was shorter than the last, for after only a few minutes of sitting down a section of ground in front of her stirred and shook, almost as if it were boiling. Then suddenly something burst through the disturbed earth: a large, ugly, green, insect-like creature with four spindly legs, a long tapered body, a crested head flanked by two bulbous green eyes and pincers for a mouth. It seemed to spot Phasma for it immediately rushed at her.

Phasma she drew her blaster from the holster and shot it down, but another came out of the hole to take its place. Phasma scrambled to her feet and blasted that one as well then began to run just as yet another came up out of the ground. She risked a glance back and saw that one creature was following and another, further back, was inspecting her left behind rations.

Phasma pushed the pain signals that were firing off in her brain from all corners of her body to the back of her mind; soon the adrenaline dulled it altogether.

The creature following her gave out clicking, whistling noise, was disconcertingly close behind, but she resisted the urge to look back again.

_It must be calling others._

The rapid clawing patter of the creature's footfalls were so close Phasma knew it was almost upon her. Then the sound suddenly stopped. Instinct told her that it must have left the ground. She dropped to the ground and rolled, the creature landed on the spot she had just occupied, burying it's sharp appendages into the earth. Phasma put a blast hole through its body before it even realized it had missed her.

The creature that had stopped to eat her rations was now following close behind. Phasma scrambled to her feet and took off again running.

The lowest limbs of the trees surrounding her were too high to jump to, and a climb would take so much effort and time she would be caught before she managed to get a foot up.

Phasma turned back to shoot off a few blasts, but her haste caused her aim to be off and she only managed to singe the top of the creature's crest.

When Phasma faced forward she found herself running into a large clearing, at the foot of a hill. Ten feet ahead of her, near the hill's crest, lay her stricken TIE-fighter, still smoldering. It was not the safest shelter, but she could use it as a barrier to create some temporary distance between her and the creatures.

When Phasma was within a foot of the starfighter a humanoid figure, silhouetted black against the setting red sun, suddenly loomed up from behind the wreckage.

"Get down!" A deep male voice yelled.

Phasma immediately dropped to the ground. Rifle blasts discharged over her head into the creature that nearly sank its claws into her, as well as the one close behind it. The remainder of the following insectoids halted at the edge of the clearing and decided to retreat back into the jungle.

Phasma raised her head up from the mossy ground to get a look at her rescuer but the sun still obscured her view. All she could make out was that he was very tall, powerfully built by what she could see of his muscular arms peeking out from beneath his canvas poncho. He lifted his blaster rifle to rest on his shoulder.

"So you're the bucket-head that crashed into my generator." The figure fished around underneath his poncho for a moment then pulled out a long metal rod.

Phasma felt a short, sharp shock on her shoulder then darkness as she blacked out.


	4. Chapter 4

They started with her helmet and with her bare face she was confronted with her colleagues. Their outrage was nearly a palpable thing hanging in the air, and it was suffocating her.

Next came her cape which was ripped violently from its moorings, then her shoulder pads.

"You are no longer fit to wear this uniform!" General Hux screamed in her face. Phasma kept her eyes trained on the floor, her expression as dispassionate as stone, even as his spittle flecked her face.

The stormtrooper standing behind her turned her from standing profile to the crowd to facing them as they proceeded to strip off her arm guards.

"You are a disgrace to the First Order." Off came the right guard.

For some reason she chose this moment to glance up at the vast audience. She saw what she expected: a vast sea of condemning faces among the officers and the blank black eyes of the stormtroopers. She deserved every bit of their hate, plus the portion that she directed at herself. As Phasma scanned her gaze locked on a pair of twin eyes in the crowd.

Her father was there, then of a sudden he was beside her where General Hux had been; his long pale face made even paler by rage, barely constrained.

Phasma tried to speak but felt as if her voice were trapped in her chest, all she could manage was the smallest of dry whispers:

"Father ..."

Zabdi Tess'ar's hand flew out from beneath his the voluminous red robes and struck her across the face.

"I knew you would fail," his cold words sliced through her heart.

Even though Phasma realized that this was clearly a dream the agony she felt was just as sharp as it would have been in waking life.

"What have you to say for yourself?"

"Nothing, sir, there is no excuse for my weakness."

The stormtrooper beside her grasped her left arm guard; searing pain exploded up into her shoulder blade.

Phasma woke up screaming.

"The pain will subside." A monotone mechanical voice came from above her head. Phasma found herself lying on her back on a pallet. She tilted her head back to see an ancient 2-1B surgical droid hovering over her, its humanoid head tilting this way and that as it studied the arm it had just realigned. The room was large with stucco walls and barrel vaulted ceiling; faint sunlight was streaming in from a small slit of a sky-light at the opposite end of the room. The whole place was cool and smelled of earth.

"Sleep well?" said a new voice from further away in the room. Phasma lifted her head in the direction of the sound, but a wave of dizziness hit her and she lay back down.

"Hold still, please," said the polite 2-1B.

The stranger accommodated her curiosity by approaching the pallet. The stranger was a tall, solidly built man who appeared to be in his sixties, although his weathered olive skin made him seem older. He was dressed in the pale simple linen tunic of a farmer. His salt and pepper hair lay in a tousled mess over his heavy brow.

"The First Order has women pilots now, huh? They don't use clones anymore?"

"Sometimes," Phasma mumbled. In her disoriented state she answered without thinking. A headache was coming on.

"Interesting." The old man scratched the stubble on his grizzled chin.

"Where am I?"

"Yavin-4, or more specifically, my farm, even more specifically, my root cellar. So, what's a First Order pilot doing all the way out here by herself?"

"I was separated from my squad through a hyperdrive malfunction."

The man gave her a doubtful look.

Phasma stared solidly back. Half truths were the best lies.

The man shrugged. "Ok."

Phasma blinked at him in mild surprise at his easy acceptance.

"I'm too old and lazy to play interrogator right now," he said when he saw her expression. "If you say that's what happened, that's what happened."

Phasma continued to stare at him, wondering if this was his real personality or an act to lull her into a false sense of security.

"Are you hungry?"

"What?"

"Food? You First Order stooges do eat, don't you? Or do they feed you some kind of super formula through a tube?"

A very rude expression rose to Phasma's lips but she forced it down. It would not do to antagonize the large man at whose mercy she was.

"I eat," Phasma said curtly, shooting him a glare.

The stranger gave her an amused grin. "Sounds like you're feeling better already. What's your name, kid?"

Phasma deeply resented the epithet but let it slide for now. She debated on what she should tell him.

"You can give me a false name, I don't care, just as long as I got something to call you."

At this statement Phasma frowned at him, quite confused and suspicious. After some though she decided to give him something; the first name that popped into her mind was that of her old nanny droid that she had given her when she was too young to properly say "TDL-6".

"Teedah"

"Teedah . . . huh. Sound's like a drink. Is there a last name that goes with that?"

Phasma was not going to give him her real one and she was too tired to think up another. "No."

"Fine, don't tell me. My name's Kes, and now that introductions are over I'm going to get us something to eat, and then we'll talk some more."

Phasma mentally groaned. More?

. . . . . .

Phasma had not realized she had fallen back asleep until Kes woke her up to eat. The meal was a hearty stew of meat and vegetable, a piece of flat bread, a glass of cold water and a sweet meal cake to finish. Phasma leaned her head back on the wall which her pallet was against and let her eyes droop. The 2-1B droid proceeded to put her left arm in a sling. Even though the satisfying food made her feel sleepy and content, at the same time she could feel her strength returning.

Phasma began to contemplate escape.

Her transportation was gone, the planet was clearly a dangerous place to traverse without weapons and some kind of guide. Phasma glanced around the room through her eyelashes: her weapon belt was gone and there were no weapons visible in the immediate vicinity. Just root vegetables and herbs hanging from the ceiling.

"The nearest spaceport is about thirty miles from here."

Phasma's eyes fluttered open and she looked up at Kes, feigning an innocence she knew he was not buying. The man was shrewd beneath his carefree exterior; clearly there was more to him than met the eye.

"And don't think about taking my jumpspeeder; you need a recognition code to turn it on and only I know it—well, me and my son."

Phasma truly closed her eyes now.

"Yeah, go back to sleep, you'll need to rest up for tomorrow."

Phasma opened one wary eye. "What's tomorrow?" she asked slowly.

"You're helping me fix the generator and rebuild the section of fence you destroyed, then I'll be turning you over to the Resistance."

I'd like to see you try, old man. I'll overpower you then return with a host of First Order fighters to blow your miserable farm off the face of the planet!

"It'll be a good excuse to visit my son. If he were here I'd hand you over to him to take to the Resistance . . ."

Phasma raised a scornful eyebrow. "A farmboy?"

"He's no farmboy, missy, he's the best pilot in the Resistance—an ace!" Kes' voice rang with fatherly pride.

If that flyboy farmer returns I'll take him with me as a prisoner for the First Order when I escape . . .

A male voice was suddenly heard screaming outside the domicile and soon frantic footsteps were heard getting closer.

"Pop? . . . POP?!"

"Poe?" Kes jumped to his feet.

Phasma straightened, a feeling of dread building. That name was familiar.

A few seconds later the owner of the voice came bursting through the door and practically bowled into his father. Kes grabbed him by the shoulders to steady him and Poe gripped his father's arms in turn.

"Pop, are you okay?! What happened?"

"I'm fine. Nothing happened. What are you doing here?"

"General Organa gave me leave. I wanted to surprise you so I didn't message you that I was coming. When I saw the downed Tie-fighter outside . . ."

"I didn't take it out, it crash landed. And here's the pilot . . ." Kes gestured to Phasma. Poe's eyebrows raised in surprise at the sight of a First Order pilot in his root cellar.

"Uh, hi . . ."

Phasma glared at him to hide her own surprise.

"Since she doesn't seem to want to introduce herself, her name's Teedah, at least that's what she says."

Poe raised an eyebrow. "'Teedah'? Sounds like a drink. No offense."

"None taken," Phasma said flatly.

Poe gave a visible start and stared at her; his eyes narrowed and then he tilted his head.

"What is it? You know her?" Asked Kes.

"I know that voice . . . It's embedded in my brain." Poe reflexively rubbed his once-tender jaw as the memory played through his head. "Say something First Order-y, like 'you rebel scum,' or something."

Phasma's eyes flashed up at him. "You're mocking me . . ."

A triumphant smirk lifted a corner of Poe's lips.

"It is you . . . Captain Plasma."

"Phasma."

"Who?" Kes looked lost.

Poe's gaze hardened slightly. "She very kindly saw to my care when I was a guest of the First Order."

"Oh, she's the one who interrogated you?"

"One of them . . ."

"I suppose I should be flattered that I made such a deep impression on you, Poe Dameron of the Rapier Squadron." Phasma said dryly, but deep down inside a small part of her was pleased. 


	5. Chapter 5

  
As Poe stared at Phasma the initial ironic amusement disappeared from his eyes. In its place came something as hard and cool as slate and the grin became a flat, grim, line. When he spoke again his voice was almost non-chalant except for the faint note of strain that ran through it.

"Pop, could you give us a moment?"

Kes looked from Poe to Phasma then back to Poe again.

"Um . . . sure. I'll just go take a look at your X-Wing and download the maintenance report from BB-8 for you."

"Thanks, Pop."

Once his father left the cellar Poe continued to stare hard at Phasma, and Phasma gazed back—her expression impassive, yet on the inside the prolonged scrutiny was making her uneasy and she fought the impulse to fidget.

"My father was a rebel pilot, you know . . . so was my Mom . . ."

Phasma's eyebrows rose slightly to indicate faint surprise but kept her eyes hooded to convey a lack of interest; that irked Poe, as she expected it would. What she did not expect however was his sudden move to get close and crouch down before her.

"You're lucky news travels slow around here or Pop wouldn't have merely knocked you unconscious . . ." His voice remained level but Phasma could sense the building anger just simmering below the surface. "Everything they fought for . . . gone in seconds . . ."

Poe bowed his head as his mind began to really wrap around the gravity it all—he had not really had time to process it until this moment, and now it was piling on him all at once.

Phasma could almost feel the grief coming off him. She had seen the tears and sobs of rebels and fellow soldiers and had been able to keep an emotional distance, a skill that became more effortless with each mission and campaign over the years.

. . . And yet for some inexplicable reason this man's grief stirred again the long dormant empathy and she could not shut him out. She stared at the dark, rich curls which were now inches from her nose. She had the pointless urge to run her fingers through them in a useless comforting gesture. He smelled of sweat, fresh air, and the earthy kapok that filled the ribbing of his flight vest, which he was still wearing.

Suddenly, Poe's right hand shot out and planted itself in the plaster wall, inches from her left ear. Phasma blinked rapidly, the closest to flinching she would ever come.

"Thirty billion lives destroyed . . ." Poe murmured brokenly. His head snapped up. "Thirty billion! Don't you care?!" Poe's eyes searched her face, his expression half furious, half incredulous, almost pleading to find some sign of humanity in her—although why it mattered to him that he that he find it, he did not know.

In the face of his very emotional outburst, and in spite of the answering emotions inside her, Phasma backed into a deeper show of impassivity, a trained response learned at an early age. She kept her gaze directed over his shoulder, fixed on the wall behind him.

Poe, on seeing her lack of response, dropped his arm in defeat and sat back on his heels.

"I don't know why I'm asking you, of course you don't care." He rose to his feet and put his hands on his hips, staring down at her. "You, the First Order—you're all monsters." Poe looked away in disgust, missing the flicker of emotion that briefly flashed across her face.

Poe said nothing further but turned on his heel and marched up the cellar steps. At the top of the landing he glanced back at Phasma. He caught her looking at him, but as quickly as their eyes met, she looked away. The stone mask was still in place. Poe chastised himself for hoping and pushed through the door.

The moment Poe left Phasma's control slipped and she released a shuddering breath. She could feel her eyes watering and wiped them before the tears could fall. For some reason his remarks had hit and, like an arrow, buried its bitter shaft into her heart. Phasma quickly fought to collect her emotions and roll them back up into the bundle she stuffed deep inside: resentment, anger, and most disturbing of all, conviction.

All alone, in some forsaken farm cellar there was no escape from the thing to be avoided at all costs.:

Self-reflection.

It was something one was taught to avoid. It was as she told her soldiers: when you self-reflect, you second guess, when you second guess, you hesitate. Hesitation made for lost missions and soldiers. Individual thought led to individual actions, which led to anarchy. Don't question, just do; trust your superiors in all things, they know better.

Didn't they?

Trapped with no objectives to fulfill, no tasks to complete, nothing whatsoever to distract her, she began to reflect on the events at Star-Killer Base and that blasted Poe Dameron . . .

Of course she had cared.

Although not for the same reasons Poe did. Hers were more specific, more personal . . .

Phasma, so tired in mind as well as body, allowed her mind to wander around memories she had avoided for years.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Phasma did not even realize she had fallen asleep until she began to dream:

She was a child again, playing about the halls of the family manse on Hosnian Prime. The door to her mother's room was open and an over-abundance of sunshine was spilling out onto the ornate parquet floor, as it always did, her mother's windows facing full west.

Normally, such a sight would fill Phasma with joy, but an unnamed uneasiness stole over her instead. She broke into a run, but her legs were heavy and slow, like she was trying to move through a deep snow drift.

When Phasma finally reached the doorway she inexplicably became an an adult again. Her mother was sitting in the chair she was always to be found in, the one Phasma's father had ordered from Naboo, specially made.

Phasma's mother looked up at her, a large smile blooming on her pale face, returning some of the youthfulness lost through bouts of illness. A feeling of relief swept through Phasma.

"Phi!" Her mother cried, using her nickname. In her hand was a holo-disc showing a three dimensional image of a young man in an Academy uniform. "Pharil passed his preliminary exams!"

Phasma opened her mouth to speak but a bright red light suddenly shining outside caught her attention. It grew brighter and brighter until its light ate up the mountains and the tall green trees that shielded their home from the busy metropolitan center.

The floor lurched then the angry red light burst through its seams and filled the room, the heat unbearable. Phasma watched with horror as her mother began to dissolve, the red light devouring her from the feet up. The last thing she saw were her eyes, fixing her with a look of panic and hurt, as if she knew it was Phasma's doing.

"Phi—" She was gone. Obliterated in seconds.

Phasma wanted to scream, but her throat seemed to be blocked. The red light filled her vision until she could do nothing but stare as It ate her own body, bit by bit, until nothing was left.

Poe had busied himself about the homestead with various chores, including fixing supper. While the stew he concocted was simmering he looked in on his father who was working on the damaged generator.

"How's it coming?"

"Well, a few things are past repair. I'm going to have to go to the space port's market to pick up some new parts."

"I'll go in for you, Pop."

"No, you just got back. Rest. Besides, we'll have to keep watch on the perimeter tonight, so get some sleep while you can."

"Well, have some dinner before you go, it's almost ready."

"With your cooking I might just take my chances with the dodgy pub food in port."

"Hurtful," Poe said, holding his hand over his heart, feigning wounded feelings. After sharing a chuckle Poe gazed at his father who was sitting on the ground, his upper body hovering over the generator. Parts littered the ground around him. Every now and then, as Kes moved about and his tunic shifted or the hem of his trousers lifted, Poe spotted the scars, white lines stark against his olive skin. Almost every night of his childhood he had his father recount him the tales connected with each scar, and there was indeed a tale for each and every one. Sometimes his mother would join in, showing off a few of her own. Kes would grow quiet at the sight of them and wrap his arms tenderly about her waist.

The thought of having to tell his father about the Hosnian System caused a sick feeling in the pit of Poe's stomach. He was surprised no communication has as yet come at the farm, and yet thankful, for Phasma's sake. He did not relish the idea of attempting to restrain his father if he should take the news in the worst way.

After he and Kes ate their fill Poe prepared a tray and took it into the cellar. He squinted in the dim light of dusk filtering through the narrow window. He switched on a lamp and approached Phasma's pallet. She appeared to be fast asleep.

Poe stood there for a while, debating on whether he should wake her or not. As he thought he began to study her, in an absent-minded sort of way.

Phasma looked nothing like what Poe had imagined. Ever since he first heard her deep, dulcet voice, his mind had conjured a picture. Since Finn was the only trooper he had ever seen out-of-uniform he imagined all troopers to be dark-skinned, figuring they were descended from the clones. Reality was a pale, rather masculine-looking, plain-faced blonde.

Her eyes were round and close-set, her jaw was strong but tapered into a weak chin; her body was muscular, as expected from an elite soldier, yet, Poe observed, still clearly feminine, as his eyes followed the line of generous curves figure revealed by the blanket that she had kicked off in what appeared to be a troubled sleep.

Poe shook his head to clear his mind of these irrelevant thoughts and back to the task at hand. He bent down to lower the tray to the floor, near her head. The tray was inches away from the surface when a distressed moan burst from Phasma's lips, startling Poe into dropping the tray. It made a loud clatter, slices of fruit, bits of bread and stew broth scattered.

Poe froze. For a tense moment he thought she would wake up. But when she did not Poe relaxed and picked up the stray food, blowing on them and putting them back on the plate. Poe checked again to see if she was still asleep. She was, but her brows were furrowed and her lips were moving slightly as if she were speaking, but no sound was issuing from them.

Poe made a soft scoffing noise. "Nightmare, huh? Now what could possibly frighten a stormtrooper? Color?"

Poe tried to chuckle, but his heart was not in it.

Despite the years of combat Poe's heart remained tender, as much as he wished it was not in some circumstances.

Like this one.

Despite who Phasma was and what she had done, Poe could not shut his sympathetic nature off. With a groan he crouched down and draped the discarded blanket back over her, automatically tucking it under her shoulders, like his mother always did. He looked back at Phasma's face and was startled to see that she was staring at him, albeit blearily, still being half-asleep.

"What are you doing, Resistance scum?" She growled. Her eyes were red-rimmed and he noticed her cheeks were damp.

Phasma was now began to glare at him, her whole body going tense.

To show that he was not intimidated, he did not move from her side.

"Time to eat."

Phasma locked her gaze with his and slowly sat up, forcing Poe to either lean back or bump foreheads with her.

Poe relented and rose to his feet.

Phasma looked at the food on the tray then back at Poe. He rolled his eyes.

"It's not poisoned."

Phasma grasped the spoon and tentatively took a bite of the stew. After a moment she grimaced. "Are you sure?"

"Ha ha."

Something in Poe's unamused, wry expression stirred Phasma's long dormant sense of humor and a corner of her mouth quirked up. It happened before she could stop it—like a long forgotten reflex.

Poe saw it and his heart fluttered out of surprise because the smile, however small and quick, changed her face. Beautified it. And for one small moment, he saw the Phasma that had existed before the Imperial Academy smothered her and the First Order obscured her. Sadly, it was gone in the next second and the placid stone mask was back in place.

Phasma glowered at Poe, perhaps vainly hoping to make up for the slip, but he seemed unfazed. In fact his aggravatingly smug grin had made a re-appearance and was apparently staying for the duration.

Despite her distaste for the food Phasma continued to eat, anything to help her ignore him.

Poe rose to his feet. "That's real food, you know—not that genetically engineered, nutritional sand-cakes the First Order feeds you."

Phasma continued to ignored him and continued to take dainty bites of what was slowly becoming more palatable as she ate it.

"I'm going to give you first watch; since you broke the perimeter, it's only fair."

Phasma blinked up at him, confused by the sudden change in subject.

"First watch?" she repeated dumbly.

"We can't have our guest getting bored during her stay, can we?" Poe folded his arms and began to pace a little, as if he were briefing a crew before a mission. "Once the local fauna figure out the perimeter is down they'll swarm this place. We're safe enough behind these walls, but the crops will get ravaged."

Phasma made a scoffing sound. "What makes you so confident I won't take off the moment you leave?"

Poe stopped pacing. "Well, one, you don't have the code for the jump-speeder; two, you don't know how to get to the nearest space port; and three, roaming aimlessly by yourself, on foot, injured, at night, in the rainforest makes your chances of survival very low—practically non-existent. I can guarantee that."

"The moment you give me a weapon I could kill you both and message the First Order to collect me."

"You're only getting a shock-blaster. It won't incapacitate a man, but it will stun small creatures and sting the large ones enough into thinking the perimeter is still electrified."

Phasma gritted her teeth and watched as the now very familiar supercilious smile stole over Poe's face.

"I'll come get you when it's time," he said as he ascended the stone steps out of the cellar.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

When the time did come Phasma was led by Poe up the spiral staircase of a thirty-foot tall wooden watchtower. From the covered platform one could see the entire farm complex but not above the surrounding canopy. There was a circle of connected benches in the center of the platform for the watcher to sit if their feet grew too tired, but they were high enough that one could still see over the railings edging the platform. Poe identified for Phasma the different buildings that made up farm and pointed out which parts of the perimeter the animals would likely test first.

"If there's an emergency—" Poe felt along the underside of the railing enclosing the platform, "there's a button here. It will sound an alarm inside each of the compounds."

Poe then handed her a pair of electrobinoculors then the shock blaster. The weapon was small, most of it fit in the palm of her hand and the barrel was large and short.

"Safety's here, you can adjust the scope here. I'll relieve you in two hours."

When Poe turned to descend the staircase Phasma shot him in upper the arm with the shock-blaster. He yelped in pain and rubbed his arm, patting out the smoldering burn on his flight suit.

"Just testing it," Phasma said.

Poe gave a rueful grunt and rotated his shoulder. "Serves me right for turning my back on you."

"It does. I also could have pushed you down the stairs."

Poe leveled a look at her. "You still could." He gripped the sides of the railing and began to carefully descend the stairs, backwards.

"It's a wonder the New Republic survived as long as it did . . ." Phasma muttered.

Poe paused in his descent to pin Phasma with a dark look before continuing.

Poe had walked about five feet away from the watch tower when a bright blue ball of electricity embedded itself in the ground to his right, just ahead of him. He paused a moment and Phasma saw his hands fist then relax before he resumed walking.

"Shoots toward the right . . ." Phasma murmured. "Good range for a little thing."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The night was quiet except for the drone of drowsy insects. It was a pleasant hum, occasionally punctuated by light chirps and calls from other animals. A cool humid breeze stirred Phasma's hair, caressed her face; she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. It had a very mellowing effect.

Phasma couldn't remember the last time she had felt the elements on her bare face, much less take pleasure in it. In fact, she could not recall the last time she took pleasure in something that was not borne out of vindictiveness or pride, rooted in First Order business. It was an odd thing not having any responsibilities except the present one—her routine was gone. It was a frightening and yet freeing experience.

Suddenly, the hurt and angry look Poe had given her before leaving the platform rose before her mind's eye, and she felt a stab of guilt.

Before she explore the feeling further she saw a mid-sized simian creature come into the clearing. It gave the perimeter fence an experimental nudge.

ZAP.

The animal yelped and stumbled over its own long legs in its haste to put as much space between itself and the fence. Phasma could not help but grin with self-satisfaction as she watched it disappear back into the darkness of the forest.

Everything was still again, perhaps even more than before. The sudden noise of the shock-blaster and the sound of pain and surprise from the animal had caused the surrounding wildlife to silence for a moment, to listen, to see if they should be fleeing as well. Once they realized nothing was going to get them the usual night sounds resumed, building in volume as they settled down.

Before Phasma knew it two hours had passed and Poe was climbing the stairs to switch with her. He stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned for moment against one of the posts holding up the roof. His expression was still slightly hard.

"Any action?"

"Just one curious ape-creature."

"There will be more soon. You and your tie-fighter brought new smells and sounds to this corner of the world."

Phasma rose from the bench. Poe moved into her path and took the shock blaster out of her hand.

"Unfortunately, you're going to stay up here with me for a while. I just realized I can't let you roam around the compound all on your own, who knows what trouble you might get into. You'll have to wait until my Pop gets back from his supply run. According to BB-8 my X-Wing sustained a lot more damage than I initially thought; that old bird's going to need a lot of replacement parts, too."

Phasma slowly sat back down on the bench. If she waited until another animal came along and distracted Poe, she might be able to grab his blaster pistol, if she was behind him. But . . . what would she do afterward? Poe was correct in the futility of her trying to leave the compound on her own, on foot. If she got his blaster and killed him she could then contact the First Order, like she had threatened to . . .

Only . . . she did not want to.

Phasma made it a rule that she and her soldiers killed only when under direct orders or self-defense. It made it easier to assuage any residue of guilt.

But that was not all. Something inside balked viscerally at the idea of having to kill Poe. Even though he was the enemy, and she had known him for only a short while, she found herself grudgingly admiring him. He was very skilled, intelligent, and— for the first time in her life—she found someone whose compassion she could not, truthfully, regard with contempt as his point of weakness; it was his strength, the bedrock of his character.

She would have to incapacitate him in some way that would give her enough time to find the communications apparatuses and signal the First Order.

Poe's back was foolishly to her again as he gazed through the electrobinoculars, but one hand was still on his blaster. Did he do this on purpose? Was he extending an overture of trust by turning his back on her again?

How unbelievable. How foolish.

How frustrating.

It created in Phasma a mix of emotions. She was moved by this display of unearned trust, if indeed that was what was happening. Yet, Phasma was determined to make him regret it.

Phasma moved very slowly toward him, the wooden boards of the platform stayed quiet. When she was right behind him she waited. Then the chance came: a tall dark mass approaching the perimeter fence.

Poe reflexively used two hands to adjust the electrobinocular's scope to get a clearer look. That was all the opening Phasma needed. Her hand snapped out and grasped the grip. She had just managed to get the barrel free of the holster when Poe's hand closed tightly over her own. He trapped her arm in between his and his side, and the hand gripping the blaster he tightly pressed against his abdomen. The barrel of the blaster was pointed past his shoulder, so if she did manage to pull the trigger it would only singe the edge of the watchtower roof. She tried to pull herself free but he was stronger, and the injured arm and shoulder pressing against his back was beginning to hurt.

Poe put down the electrobinoculars and picked up the shock blaster which was within reach and shot at the insectoid creature, which was now clearly visible. It had begun to climb the perimeter. It let out a dry screech and scurried off back into the jungle.

"Great, now he's going to tell all his buddies . . ."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote this chapter because after reviewing it, I think it was too out of character for Phasma to be so vulnerable that soon.

Chapter 6

"Tell all his buddies" the creature did. Within minutes a building cacophony of clicks, whirrs and chirps surrounded the compound.

"Blast it!" Poe spat. With Phasma momentarily focused on attempting to asses the numbers of creatures from the noise, he pulled the blaster from her hands and spun around to thrust the shock blaster into them.

"If we want to live we have got to trust each other, okay?"

Phasma stared into his amber eyes. She knew he was not asking her to trust him, but for him to be able to trust her.

"For at least an hour, alright? Trust for an hour? Can we do that?"

"As my odds of survival if I leave here on foot are very low my only recourse is to temporarily cease hostilities with you and assist in the defense of this compound, after which— if we survive—we shall resume our usual state of enmity."

Poe blinked owlishly at her for a moment then said, "That's a ‘yes’, then.”

"May I suggest something?"

Poe, who had been about to descend the stairs turned back to look at her with raised eyebrows.

"By all means."

"I confess to not being particularly mechanically minded, but, as I am a good shot—"

"As am I, your point?" The growing volume of the wildlife was making Poe understandably less patient.

"I suggest you work on restoring what you can of the perimeter, if your can, while I hold off the enemy. Is that viable?"

Poe moved his hands to his hips as he considered her proposal.

"I may be able to do something, but not much can really be done until Pop gets back with more parts—"

The ringing tap of hard exoskeletons clawing at metal and cut into their conversation.

"We got company," Poe said, hastening down the tower stairs and towards the generator.

Phasma stayed on the tower, following with her eyes the closest sounds to a spot not far from the tower. She took aim and stung the creature off, but soon there was another to take its place. For the next fifteen minutes Phasma continued to knock successive creatures down, until at last the fauna finally figured out that trying to gain entrance near the tower was a bad idea and moved their efforts further down the fence. The shock-blaster was just able to reach them at the furthest section from the tower, but soon the shock-blaster, not meant for rapid fire discharge, overheated and jammed. Phasma wasted precious time trying to get the thing working again but finally threw it away in frustration and scrambled down the stairs toward the farmhouse where she hoped to find extra weapons inside.

Just as she reached the door a small simian creature jumped onto her back and tried to sink its teeth into her skull, but it only managed to graze her ear as Phasma dismantled its grip. She whipped the creature over her shoulder, put it in a headlock and broke its neck.

Phasma flung open the door to the farmhouse and was about to go inside when she heard a loud electric hum over the din the creatures. In the dark she could make out a faint glow coming from one half of the fence. The creatures who were on that half vibrated and screamed before being thrust off by the electricity jumping from pole to pole and line to line. Phasma's relief was short lived when she saw that the other half of the perimeter, the one nearest the tower, was still inactive. Phasma darted inside and after some searching she found Kes' blaster rifle.

When she exited the farmhouse she made for the generator. She saw BB-8 and by his master, communicating with the generator while Poe had both hands in the open control panel, a spanner between his lips.

"Why is only one half live?" Phasma demanded.

Poe looked up at her, not missing the blast rifle in her arms. Poe took the spanner out of his mouth. "I can't get the power to extend any further without those parts, I—"

Phasma suddenly aimed the blaster at him.

Poe felt a flare of fury and flinched in the split second of the blast report that followed. When Poe realized he was not dead he also heard something hit the ground directly behind him. He turned to see the body of a Kliknik in the dirt, its head blasted off but its sharp spindly appendages still twitching. BB-8 made an electronic noise that could be interpreted as disgust.

Poe looked back at Phasma, wide-eyed.

“. . . Thanks."

Phasma fired off another shot a few inches above his head and a Gackle Bat bounced off the generator and into the dust, unspent venom pooling from its mouth.

"Thanks, again."

"There's too many of them, I suggest we fall back to the hovel."

"It's not a hovel, it’s a perfectly good house," Poe protested as he picked up his blaster and rose to his feet.

“It's a hovel.” Phasma muttered under her breath.

Suddenly, Poe heard the familiar whirr and rattle of his father's jump speeder and the sound of its small built-in blasters firing off. Poe did a one-eighty degree turn and ran to the perimeter gate; he would have to manually open it to let his father in. Phasma, ever the soldier, automatically followed to assist.

Kes Dameron said nothing when he got off the speeder but handed his blaster to and straight to the generator, followed by BB-8. Poe positioned himself by his father's side to provide immediate cover while Phasma picked off further targets.

With Kes' expertise and BB-8's assistance the generator was fully operational within five minutes. The new task was to be rid of the creatures left within the compound. Between the three of them the remainder were quickly dispatched.

Poe breathed a long tired sigh. "Well . . . that's the last of them."

"Not quite," Kes growled through gritted teeth, turning his blaster on Phasma. Obviously at the market he had learned everything.

Phasma glanced up at Kes' face, partially shrouded by his rain hood, but his bared teeth and trembling lips she could see clearly. She lowered her gaze to the shaking barrel of the blaster then slowly got down on her knees.

"Pop!"

"I'm going to kill her, don't try to stop me, Poe!"

Poe approached slowly. "Pop, you can't."

"Yes I can . . . after what they did." Kes' voice began to tremble as sobs rose to his throat.

Poe closed his eyes. "I was there, Pop . . . I know how you feel . . ." He opened his eyes. "But . . . shooting her will not bring them back."

"She's one of their top brass, she had a direct hand in—in—that . . ."

Phasma watched as tears streamed down the old man's face. She locked eyes with Kes now, knowing he had every right to kill her, and that if she were in his place she would do the same.

Kes clamped down on his emotions and his grip on the blaster tightened as he readied to pull the trigger.

Poe had been able creep up close enough since his father's focus was all on Phasma to then quickly wedge himself between the her and the blaster. Phasma felt her jaw go slack. The look of surprise and confusion on Kes’ face mirrored her own.

"Get out of the way, son."

"No."

"Get out of the way," Phasma’s low voice registered in Poe’s ears. He twisted to look over his shoulder at her. "What?!"

"He has just cause."

"Vigilante justice may be okay with the First Order,” Poe snapped, “but not the Republic.” Poe snapped at her then turned to his father. “You know that, Pop. She has to stand trial."

"There is no Republic!" Kes bellowed.

Poe closed his eyes against the fear and desperation that had been simmering inside him since he heard the news of Hosnian Prime. He forced down the emotions that threatened to boil over and opened his eyes to meet those of his father's which were filling with enraged tears. "Yes there is,” Poe said firmly. “As long as we are alive . . . it's alive too . . . it has just suffered a slight set back . . ." Poe put one hand on the barrel of the blast rifle. "Pop . . ."

Kes wavered, his lips trembled and tears coursed crooked paths down his weathered skin. The rifle drooped. Poe brought his other hand up to cradle the side of his father's face. Kes’ gave his son an anguished look before dropping his gaze. 

"All that your mother and I fought for . . . and sacrificed . . ." Kes relinquished the blaster and, turning from them, began to walk away in an aimless direction, his great shoulders drooping. 

Poe glanced back at Phasma who was still on the ground, her eyes fixed on the retreating figure of an old broken warrior and she let out the breath she did not realize she had been holding.

Poe then turned back to look at his father and was startled to see him down on his knees, doubled over.

"Pop!" He raced over to his side and knelt down. "What is it?"

Kes' breathing was labored and he couldn't manage any words but he was clutching his chest.

 

. . . . .

"Master Dameron has suffered a minor heart-attack," said 2-1B. "But I have him in stable condition now. After a day or two of rest he should be sufficiently recovered to resume his daily activities."

Poe ran his shaking hand through his black curls. Kes was sleeping peacefully, his careworn face relaxed.

Phasma stood in the doorway, staring at father and son; an uncomfortable tightness forming in her chest, but she could not place the emotions associated with it. They were a jumbled mix of guilt, confusion, familial longing, gratitude and a little fear--of what, she did not know--but she did know which emotion was foremost and thus needing to be dealt with and analysed.

Content that his father was stable for now, Poe rose to his feet with a sigh.

"I'm going to do a perimeter check before I turn in," he said as he passed Phasma, "you should get some sleep."

"Thank you," she breathed. The words she had not been ready to say had tumbled out anyway.

"What?" Poe stopped short. 

" . . . You shouldn't have done it, but thank you, anyway.”

Phasma had been avoiding eye contact during the exchange but now stole a quick glance at Poe’s face. His expression was unreadable in the dim light, but she saw him tilt his head slightly to one side, like one confrontation something new and alien.

"Help me with the perimeter check."

Phasma obediently followed him out of the farmhouse, she would rather be outside then uncomfortably watching over Kes.

Outside the damage to the compound appeared to be minimal, with the exception of all the dead creature carcasses lying around. There were a few spots where the physical links of the perimeter would need to be repaired.

When the reached the westernmost part of the compound Poe suddenly groaned, "oh no . . ."

Before Phasma could ask he walked away from her side and knelt before a large block of rough-hewn stone sitting under a small native tree. Phasma approached out of curiosity for a better look. A stray blast bolt had left a large scorch mark on the upper right corner of the stone and Poe was fingering the damage which had almost obscured the first half of the inscription on the face of the block.

“Here Rests Lieutenant Shara Bey Dameron, Soldier of the Republic, Beloved Wife and Mother. Gone but not Lost in the Force.”

Poe gently ran his fingers over deeply-etched words.

"Sorry, Mom. I'll see if I can fix it tomorrow."

With another sigh Poe rose to his feet. When he turned he glanced at Phasma who had been standing a few feet behind him. He had intended to pass her but stopped short when he saw the glistening of tears on her cheeks, shown up by the moonlight.

He was stunned. There was a real heart of flesh under all that metal after all . . .

 

“Are you . . .?”

Phasma sucked in a breath, suddenly realizing that she had been crying and that she had been caught. She hastily swiped at her cheeks. Knowing some explanation had to be made she hardened her expression and said as matter-of-factly as possible: “My mother also passed away.”

The revelation of shared experience and natural feelings caused an automatic rush of compassion to course through Poe. He slowly stepped closer, moving carefully as one would with a wild animal who might bolt at any moment.

“Phasma--”

Phasma gave him a sharp, warning look that stopped him in his tracks. Poe got the message that any further conversation on the subject was closed until further notice. 

"If the perimeter check is complete, we should return to the house, tomorrow will be a long day with the amount of repair and clean up that will need to be done." Phasma turned on her heel on marched back toward the house.

As Poe followed he ran his eyes along her strong, solid, and yet somehow still very graceful, feminine figure; this incongruous, unfolding enigma named Phasma.


End file.
